Short Poems

Ben Jhonson Drunk

Stand foot stand my foot, least slipping thou'rt misled
Stand fast or else these stones may prove thy bed.

Upon an Escheater a Knave that bought the place

Cheaters thy true name, cousnedg christend thee
Yett buying es, thoul't now escheater be
What hast thou gott by that, i'st not as ill
For Es translated's, thou art; Cheater still.

A tinter-box for Ned: Beechfer! chafing at play

Thou soon takst fier poor Ned; and why:
Because thou art like tinder dry
And hard as flint; if fortunes wheel
Turn thee to leese, that serves for steel.

WHO REFUSED A STATUE THE PUBLIC WISHED TO RAISE TO HIS HONOUR, DURING HIS LIFE .

When royal statues moulder into dust,
And broken lies the hero's trophied bust;
If yet humanity can heave a sigh,
When mis'ry lifts the pleading, tearful eye;
Howard thy name shall live in ev'ry clime,
And give defiance to the lapse of time!

UPON HER BIRTH DAY, WITH A GOLDEN ANCHOR .

May my dear girl, on ev'ry birth-day, find
Content the golden anchor of her mind!
Still with her years may happiness increase,
And her heart be the sanctu'ry of peace!
Pure be her joys, exempt from all alloy,
Like the fine metal of this little toy.

W hiles G REENHAM writeth of the Sabboths rest,
His soule inioyes that which his pen exprest:
His worke inioyes not what it selfe doth say,
For it shall neuer finde one resting day.
A thousand hands shall tosse each page and line,
Which shall be scanned by a thousand eyne.
That Sabboths rest, or this Sabboths vnrest,
Hard is to say whether is the happiest.

Deep are the wounds which strike a virtuous name,
Sharp are the darts Revenge still sets on wing:
Consuming Jealousy's abhorred flame!
Deadly the frowns of an enraged king.
Yet all these to Disdain's heart-searching string,
Deep, sharp, consuming, deadly, nothing be,
Whose darts, wounds, flames, and frowns, meet all in me.

'Tis I who lost by the wrestling between myself and the crone; she took from me the pith of my (?) mind; she put the back of my head to earth. My blood and flesh she took from me; she put a wheeze in my chest; an unlucky one for me to meet was the monster; God pursue her with his wrath.
She put confusion in my head and great it was, seeing men dead and alive — the likeness of Hector from Iroy and of the champions who were in the army of Rome; a crone dismal, bent, and swart, who was full of scandal and lies, who plunged me in delirium every moment, who chased my reason away.

I went down to Paible one morning when 'twas very cold; my boon companion met me, he and Lachlan Ruadh; we made for the knoll where there was a goodly gathering of people: as they missed us with the bottle, here is my tale to tell of it.
We sat down by the fire, and the lads were in our company; the slobber-lipped miller went ben with his whine, enlarging on the number he had seen and saying he could not serve them all — " There are three weather-worn fellows down there as broad as any in the land. "

If flowers could always bloom at eve
As sweetly as they bloom at morn;
If joys could ne'er take wing and leave
Our hearts to languish all forlorn: —
Then flowers would ne'er seem half so bright,
And joys would ne'er be half so dear, —
The sweetest dawn of morning light
Is that we gaze on through a tear!